


Injury

by clarabauerle



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, procrastination, so many hugs, why am I still awake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarabauerle/pseuds/clarabauerle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hurt your fingers. Benedict thinks you might be killing off art critics. The fluffiest fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Injury

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry in advance.

“I suppose this is why you’re suddenly the art world’s darling, then?” Ben asked laconically, looking up as you swept in. He was curled in an armchair reading what looked like a script, cigarette dangling from his lips and a coffee on the floor next to him. “You have tea with the good critics and viciously murder the bad?”  
You narrowed your eyes at him, trying not to laugh, and plucked at your blood stained dungarees. “Actually, yes. That’s exactly it.”  
Ben leaned upward and you kissed him quickly before turning into the kitchen and carrying on, “But it’ll be your blood in a minute-” you flicked the kettle on, talking over your shoulder, “if the shower isn’t on for me in, like, three minutes?” You groaned, rolling your shoulders, and only half heard Ben as he murmured something indistinct about real blood and Poirot.  
You’d been at the studio all day, shredding your fingers on a new set of stanley knives, and the blood covering you was your own. Your fingertips were stinging and sore, burning up like you’d seriously damaged them, which was the last thing you needed. Your week had been ridiculously bad. Nobody had warned you that being an artist would probably result in being maimed.

Ben came into the kitchen and stood behind you. You turned your back, trying to put off the inevitable, but he came forward as if to wrap his arms around your waist. You turned your face away as you saw him freeze at the sight of your bloodied hands.  
“Oh Jesus, your fingers-” Ben’s voice was quiet, but hoarse. He pulled your left hand, closest, towards his chest and cringed as you winced. Gently, he turned it over and inspected the shallow cuts. Your eyes were shut; you could feel the blood of embarrassment throbbing in your eyelids, tears of pain leaking slowly from underneath your eyelashes.  
“Oh, my darling…” The only warning was a rush of air before you were enveloped in a careful hug, and Ben was murmuring in your ear, fiddling with your hair.  
“The new stanley knives? You should have called me. I could have, I don’t know, held something, couldn’t I?”  
You snorted softly. “You need your hands, Ben. More than I do. They need to look all pale and ethereal on camera, like the rest of you.” You pushed your face into the curve of his neck, feeling the whuff of his laugh through your chest. He pressed a kiss into your hair. You took a deep breath, sighing in the scent of his skin, and felt comforted.  
“I’m ok, honestly, I’m ok. It’s just been a long day, and my fingers really hurt, and I’ve missed you.” You stiffened, realising how pathetic that sounded - odd, and clingy. You began to pull away, to apologise, but Ben just held you tighter and tilted your face up, one finger below your chin, to begin covering your face with kisses - eyelids, nose, cheeks, eyebrows.  
“Idiot,” you laughed, and kissed his neck. “Who actually does that?”  
“I do. And I’ve won a fucking BAFTA, so I can do whatever I like.”  
You grinned, nipping at the muscles of his shoulder that were showing above his white shirt, then tried to smooth out your expression into something serious. Ben tightened his hold, fisting his hands into the denim of your dungarees as you leaned back in order to see his face.  
“So, I’m going in the shower, and I’m obviously grievously injured, so you’ll have to do everything for me,” you said solemnly, “including some sort of massage, I think. Or maybe we’ll just have something really good for tea and then go to bed?”  
“Of course.” Ben raised an eyebrow, and you raised one in return. “Shut up. I love you. I’ll finish this,” he waved at the abandoned mugs, “while you get in the shower.” He wiped away the remaining track of a single tear with his thumb and released you.

Much later, padding around the flat barefoot and wet haired, you paused before Ben on your way to the bookcase. He looked over his reading glasses at you and tipped his glass of whisky to and fro, looking every inch a machiavellian villain.  
“What have I done to deserve such scrutiny?” His question was quiet in the silence, and his lips quirked slightly.  
“It’s just come back to me, the thing I meant to ask - what were you saying earlier? About Poirot?”  
You tucked your hair behind your ears, watched as his face crinkled into an awkward grin.  
“The day I met you, I… I thought you were in the drama. I thought you were the murderess.” He shrugged as you burst out laughing, and carried on defensively.  
“Well what was I supposed to think? Jacqueline is the most beautiful girl in the whole book, and there you were!”  
You fell onto the settee next to him, still laughing, and kissed him hard.  
“I’m glad you think I’m like Jacqueline,” you said as he pulled you closer. Ben hummed into your ear, tracing the bones of your spine.  
“Stop talking now. It’ll hurt your fingers.”  
“I’m a real artist you know. The world loves me. I can talk-”  
But then you couldn’t. Because your lips were otherwise engaged.

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely sickened at the sweetness of this but it just sort of happened. It wasn't even proof-read. Thanks for getting this far!


End file.
